


Family Portrait: Assume the Crash Position

by coslyons



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: (in anticipation for TRK), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Catholicism, F/M, M/M, No Spoilers, Self-Hatred, Smoking as an alternative to emoting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6581608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coslyons/pseuds/coslyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Once upon a time, a dreamer had three sons, and one was more like him than the others.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A Declan Lynch character study about being an older sibling, the meaning of responsibility, and having a family that doesn't know how to love you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Portrait: Assume the Crash Position

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of thoughts about Declan and what being an older sibling means to me, and thus this fic was born.  
> Maggie Stiefvater owns all the characters (except Sarah).  
> Title comes from I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson
> 
> The song that best embodies what I was trying to get at in this fic is Real Life by the Weeknd.
> 
> The violence is gun violence. The graphic depiction is a non-human death, and the non-graphic depiction is a human death.

Declan Lynch flicks the spinner of his lighter until a flame appears. Cupping his hand around the tiny flame, he holds it up to the cigarette dangling from between his lips. Smoke billows from his mouth as he puts his lighter away.

He takes a deep breath, and lets the smoke settle heavily in his lungs. Declan exhales slowly, letting his tension drift away in the cloud of smoke. His heart flutters, and he feels at peace. At least for now. The cold night air brushes against his face and hands, but his insides feel like they're glowing dimly glowing like the tip of his cigarette.

He tries not to smoke too often—it was bad for your image if you did, and he didn't want to set that kind of example for Matthew—but he feels like he deserves one after today.

His cheekbone still throbs where Ronan's fist had hit it.

The whole fight had been a bit of a blur—they usually were, with him and Ronan. He wasn't sure which of them had thrown the first punch this time. It seems like both he and Ronan are living on shorter and shorter fuses each time they had to be near each other. It's only a matter of time before they have the fight to end all others.

To others, each of his and Ronan's fights seemed to be its own private war, but Declan knows better. Every battle over grades, over bad habits, over friends is only that: a battle. The war has been raging for years now, and any victory at this point would be a loss in itself; all this fighting was only one step closer to a mutually assured destruction. Even though they both know this, he and Ronan don't know any other way to handle things.

It's daunting. It's exhausting.

Declan stands, and grinds the butt of his cigarette beneath his shoe.

He wishes he knew what else to do.

But wishes, like dreams, were just things that would end up hurting him.

 

* * *

 

_Once upon a time, a dreamer had three sons, and one was more like him than the others._

Ronan Lynch was his father's son in every way. Everything from his appearance to the way he talked came, in no small part, from Niall Lynch himself.

Sometimes it got eerie. If Declan hadn't known his brother was born, he'd have assumed Niall had just dreamed himself a miniature clone.

Declan wasn't really like anyone else in his family. He was the single piece in a family of matched sets: Ronan and Dad. Matthew and Mom. Declan, all by himself.

He might have thought he was adopted had he not had Dad's nose, or eyes that were the exact shape and color of Ronan's. Physically, he was undeniably a Lynch.

No one really knew what to make of him though. They didn't know how to love him. It was like they all spoke different languages around each other, and intended meanings got lost in the gaps of understanding. Declan knew better than most people how hard it is to love someone you don't understand, and his father didn't understand him in the slightest.

 

"How did I manage to make something as sensible as you?"

The question came out of nowhere from his father, who was leaning up against the kitchen counter holding a glass of strawberry lemonade. Declan was sitting at the kitchen table, working on his pre-algebra homework. When he looked up, Declan was surprised to see that his father actually wanted an answer.

But there wasn't one, not really, so Declan shrugged at his father, and looked back down.

When your family dealt in impossibilities, it was the strangest thing of all to be normal. Normal often got overlooked in the face of the extraordinary, and Ronan was the extraordinary one in their father's eyes.

Ronan never got called sensible. He was called wild, and reckless, and the birth of a star, and war itself. Not like Declan. Sensible, plain, boring Declan.

He supposed to be the older sibling, and it feels wrong to resent your little brother for being himself. Even so, he can't help but feel a twinge of envy at the look on his father's face when Ronan bursts into the kitchen clutching his latest dream souvenir.

It's not like Niall would have looked at  _him_  like that anyway.

 

* * *

 

_Once upon a time, there was a boy who thought his father could do anything, and he was right._

Declan was eleven when he'd shot a gun for the first time.

His father had led him out to the back corner of the Barns.

"We don't want you accidentally hitting someone," Niall had said, pressing a heavy hand onto Declan's shoulder.

Before Niall would even put a weapon in Declan's hand, he imparted what he considered to be the most important part of gun safety: "Only point the gun at something you're willing to shoot. Otherwise, keep it pointed towards the ground."

That was hardly a promising thing to start with, Declan had thought, if you're trying to convince a kid that knowing how to shoot a gun is a good thing.

Niall unloaded the magazine, and removed the bullet from the chamber. Holding the gun loosely in his left hand, he turned to Declan.

"Form an L-shape with your right hand," Niall said, demonstrating the proper shape, "like so."

Declan held up his hand. Niall pressed the handle of the gun into the shape between Declan's thumb and forefinger. Declan's forefinger pointed along the barrel of the gun. Niall curled the rest of Declan's fingers around the handle.

"Like that." Niall held up his hands. "Your other hand goes on the bottom of the handle."

Declan put his left hand under his right, trying to look like the cops on the TV shows he wasn't supposed to be watching.

"To aim, line up the notch on the end of the barrel with the notches right here"—he pointed to the proper place on the gun—"and when they're even with each other, you can shoot. Got it?"

When Declan nodded, Niall plucked the gun from his hands. Niall handed Declan a pair of what looked like really big headphones that blocked out all the sound around him when Declan put them on.

Niall loaded the magazine back into the gun, and slid the top of it back to load a bullet into the chamber. He clicked the safety off, and handed the gun over to Declan.

Declan wrapped his hands around the handle of the gun like Niall had shown him, and held it out towards the target.

The gun sagged at the ends of his outstretched arms, but he tried to shoot right anyway. The recoil from the gun caused it to kick upwards in his hands. He missed the target entirely, going a full two feet above it.

"Declan!" his father said with a sort of frantic panic in his eyes. "You have to take this seriously! You can't protect your mother and brothers if you're going to fool around."

"I'm sorry, Dad." Ashamed, he held the gun out to Niall.

Niall rubbed his hands over his face, and said, "No. Do it again, and try to do better this time."

 

* * *

 

_Once upon a time, a man saw Death approaching, and he was afraid._

Niall Lynch was not a good man.

He hadn't always been a bad one either, though, at least as far as Declan had known.

The summer Declan turned sixteen showed a lot of changes for the Lynch family. Niall kept disappearing off into the city with dark bags filled with mysterious dreams, and returning a week later in the middle of the night covered in cuts and bruises.

It seemed that Declan's sensibility was something valuable these days. Niall needed Declan working with him to handle family affairs, to tidy the inevitable messes of dealing in dreams.

And, as Declan found out late one night in July, the inevitable messes of dealing with organized crime.

Niall had pulled him out to one of the smaller barns, one that Niall had claimed as a workshop some years before. Inside the barn, it became obvious to Declan what his father's business truly was. Laid out on tables were rows and rows of counterfeit goods. Some of the tables had more ominous dreams laid out on their surfaces: dull black guns that made the whole room smell like metal, or blood.

Suddenly all the worried looks and fearful lessons from his childhood made sense. His father was a criminal. His father dealt with other, more dangerous, criminals.

"You have to take care of things for me, Declan."

"I will."

Niall continued like Declan hadn't spoken. "You have to promise you will do whatever it takes to protect our family."

"I will."

 

* * *

 

 Declan presses Sarah into the mattress. She gasps as he kisses down the side of her neck. His hips press between her thighs. Her hands roam over his bare back. He rolls his hips, and hears a ringing.

A ringing. His phone is ringing.

"Just ignore it," Sarah says, sounding a little breathy. "If it's important, they'll leave a message."

But Declan is already getting up and grabbing his phone from his jacket pocket. "It might be about my brothers."

Sarah sits up from where she was laying on the bed. One of her bra straps had slipped down her shoulder. She gives him an annoyed look, and says, "So what if it is? You don't have to care of everything."

"I really do," Declan says, before walking into the bathroom and shutting the door. He answers the call.  _Please don't be about Ronan._

The sound of the pre-recorded and tinny computerized voice echoes through the phone: " _Your child_ Matthew Lynch _was absent for first period, second period, third period_..."

Declan breathes a little sigh of relief.  _Not Ronan._  Matthew probably let himself get talked into skipping just this once by one of his friends. He'll just talk to Matt when he saw him on Sunday. Matthew was so much easier of a fix than Ronan would have been. It would have been a fight, and Declan just didn't have the time of energy to spare for another fight.

He ends the call. Takes a deep breath. Looks at his reflection.

The dark circles under his eyes are looking pretty bad these days. He finally looks as tired as he feels, which is definitely a bad thing. Declan has a reputation of perfection, and he isn't about to let it go so easily. He's worked hard for his reputation, and he likes it. Most days, it doesn't even matter that Ronan calls him a liar for it.

Having a reputation is worth the trouble.  It's the easiest way to make sure things run smoothly, and Declan needs things to go smoothly so he can protect his family. Declan needs to be perfect to protect his family.

_If only it weren't so exhausting to be perfect._

Declan takes another deep breath to settle himself, to put back on his mask. He can't afford to break down now. This isn't the time for that. He opens the door to the bathroom, and goes back out to where Sarah is laying on her side in the bed.

Sarah traces the muscles of his chest and stomach as he lays down next to her. "So what was that about?"

He drags his fingertips along the lacy edge of her underwear idly. "It was nothing important."

"Why'd you answer it, then?"

Declan laughs humorlessly. "This isn't the kind of relationship where I tell you that."

It's the wrong thing to say. Declan realizes that as soon as he sees Sarah's eyebrows draw together and her nose wrinkle up.

She pushes away his hands and climbs out of the bed. Sarah storms around the room, gathering her things as she goes.

"Sarah, wait. I—"

"No." She looks up from where she's angrily tugging on her pants. "I don't want to hear it. If this isn't the kind of relationship where you're willing to tell me things, then this isn't the kind of relationship where I let you do this"—she gestures to herself—"either."

Declan watches silently as she buttons up her shirt, slips on her shoes.

She slings her bag over her shoulder, walks to the door, and pulls it open. Right before she walks out, she whirls around in the door frame and says, "Don't bother calling until you're ready to tell me things."

The walls shake as she slams the door behind her.

Declan sighs. His bones feel really heavy all of a sudden, like he'll sink right through the floor if he lets himself. "Easing out of the bed, he goes to his closet and pulls out a hood. The inside of it is soft against the bare skin of his chest.

He walks over to his nightstand. In the back of the drawer was a pack of cigarettes. He's already had his weekly cigarette, but he really wants one right now. Declan sets the box down on top of the nightstand, trying not to let his weakness break his rules.

He gets out a pair of sweatpants from his dresser, and puts them on. In light of his newly free evening, Declan plans to read the new biography he'd purchased on a whim a few weeks ago. He settles in his bed with the book in his lap, fully intending to spend the evening reading.

Every few moments, however, he finds his eyes drawn to the pack of cigarettes. Sighing, he sets aside the book. One extra cigarette this week can't do that much harm. He digs his lighter out of the inner pocket of his coat, and takes one cigarette out of the pack.

Declan climbs out onto the fire escape of his apartment building. Even if he's breaking his one a week rule, he still isn't going to break his rule about smoking indoors.

Lighting his cigarette, he looks up at the night sky. He misses being able to see the stars.

He misses a lot of things.

 

* * *

 

_Once upon a time, there was a boy who thought his father could do anything, and he was right._

Niall fully became a bad man in the August that Declan turned 17.

Long after everyone else in the family had gone to bed that night, Niall had roused Declan from his bed for some mysterious purpose that Niall refused to say anything about, no matter how many questions Declan asked him. All he said was that Declan needed clothes he's be willing to get rid of after tonight. Nothing more.

Once Declan had his clothes on, Niall led him out to one of the barns closest to the house. Declan waited blearily outside while his father rummaged around inside. He didn't have to wait long; his father emerged only moments later carrying two shovels and a black handgun. Niall shifted the gun in his hands contemplatively, then held the gun out to Declan handle first.

"Take this," he told Declan. "You'll need it in a bit."

Declan followed him out to a nearly forgotten corner of the Barns where the trees grew thick and gnarled, and the light from the moon couldn't seem to make it through the leaves. Everything seemed gray and foggy.

Sleep still clouded Declan's head. He couldn't honestly have said how long they walked through the misty woods before Niall finally drew them to a halt.

They'd reached a clearing. There weren't any cricket around to break the heavy silence of the night. The trees creaked and groaned despite the fact that there was no wind. A quiet snuffling noise drew Declan's eyes to the far edge of the clearing.

It was a goblin, or else a leprechaun. Its hands were bound behind its back, and it was on its knees. Its whole body seemed to be shaking, either from its sobs or its fear. It was small and helpless. Declan felt a surge of pity for it, all tied up like that.

"I need you to kill it."

Declan looked at his father incredulously. Niall looked back, expression blank and weary. He was serious. The gun felt heavy in Declan's hand.

"No. I won't do it," Declan said. He looked back and forth from the creature to his father. "Why would I even have to?"

"You promised you would protect the family," Niall said, with a carefully controlled expression on his face, "and tonight, that means killing something."

Declan looked down at the gun in his hand. His jaw clenched as he hissed, "That's not what I meant when I said I'd protect the family. I'm not some sort of  _killer_."

"Declan," Niall said, his voice colder than Declan had ever heard it before, "this isn't a joke."

"No," Declan said, turning to look his father in the eye. "It's not."

"Alright. Hand over the gun. I'll handle it, then." Niall walked up to Declan and plucked the gun right out of Declan's hands. As Declan watched, frozen, Niall raised the gun to the creature's head and pulled the trigger. Its head exploded in a spray of dark green blood; its body collapsed limply on the ground of the clearing.

Declan felt bile rise in his throat at the sight. There was a whining sound in the clearing that Declan realized was coming from him.

Niall pressed a shovel across Declan's chest. Declan grabbed it only though force of habit. Niall couldn't seem to meet Declan's eyes anymore. "You and I. We do what we have to, as long as the others are safe. Right?"

He didn't even bother waiting for Declan's answer before turning, and starting to dig a grave for the creature's body.

Tears ran down Declan's face as he and Niall kept digging. There was no noise in the clearing except for the sound of their shovels hitting the sodden dirt.

The whole situation was disgusting. The soil squelched like a wound every time either of them took a shovelful of it. A spray of blood and brains were spattered across the bottoms of Declan's pants from when Niall had killed it.

Declan couldn't even look when Niall finally shoved the thing into its grave, and couldn't help but cringe at the dull thump it made when it hit the bottom. He blindly helped Niall fill in the hole.

Finally, they were done. Niall still hadn't said a word since they'd started digging. He only walked back to the house, shoulders bowed and head down.

 

* * *

 

The thing nobody tells you about responsibility is the way it presses down heavily on your shoulders. Declan is the last thing standing between his brothers and the rest of the world.

Some days, the thought of it is so heavy that Declan struggles to remember how to breathe.

He couldn't let any of it break him, though. He couldn't let himself turn to despair. It's safer to be angry than scared. It always has been.

 

So, Declan does what he's always done when he can't stand to be in his own skin: he laces up his running shoes and goes for a run. He appreciates the blissful blankness of running, the disconnect between body and brain, the physicality of it all. He loves when he's able to think of nothing but the run, and usually, that's what happens.

Usually.

On the days where he can't seem to lose his thoughts, he gets to try and outrun them. Or at the very least, he gets to punish himself for having them.

Hills are the healthiest way to hate yourself, and Declan plans to take full advantage of that today.

He starts off slowly, getting the feel of it, picking up speed.

_Useless Declan. Couldn’t do anything. The only thing you’re good for is cleaning up other people’s messes, and you can’t even do that without falling apart like a weakling. What good are you if you can’t even handle a little problem?_

He goes faster. He deserves this aching in his lungs, his legs. He's not weak.

_You’re going to get everyone killed because you’re not good enough to protect them. Mom, and Matt, and Ronan are all going to die because of you. You are not strong enough. You are not smart enough. You are not enough. You are not enough._

He's flying now, his feet barely touching the ground before pushing off again. His thoughts loop to the rhythm of his run.

_Useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless useless—_

Gasping for breath, Declan crests the hill. Vision slightly blurry from tears, he looks at his hands. They won't stop shaking. He can't make them stop shaking. Why won't they stop shaking?

His lungs clench then, and it's like he can't take in any air at all. The pounding of his heart thunders in his ears. His hands aren't the only things shaking anymore; it feels like his whole body is rattling. Declan grasps desperately at the collar of his shirt, trying to feel something concrete, trying to fucking  _breathe_.

He crouches on the ground, curling into himself, trying to calm down long enough to catch his breath. Declan knows that this is the only way he can stop the anxiety attack. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth.

When he finally stops shaking, he goes to uncurl himself, only to feel his muscles start protesting the change in position after being curled up for so long. Inch by painful inch, he gets himself standing back upright.

He really doesn't want to have to run all the way back, but at this point, he doesn't really have a choice.

With a heavy sigh and some minor stretching, Declan starts slowly on the long road back home.

 

* * *

 

_Once upon a time, there was a boy who thought he'd turn into a monster when the sun went down, and he was right._

It was just past two in the morning when Declan heard the shattering of glass downstairs. He was awake instantly. Declan was by far the lightest sleeper in his family. Everyone else was so tied up with the dreaming that they sometimes forgot how to be awake.

Not that it mattered now. The rest of his family was away at the beach for the long weekend. Declan was on his own for now.

Just last month, Niall had given Declan a gun to keep in his room, "just in case". Declan quietly removed the gun from its holster, and put on his shoes. He put his cell phone in the pocket of his pajama pants.

He held the gun like Niall had taught him, pointed at the ground. He flicked the safety off, and crept around the corner. He made his way quietly down the stairs, easing his way from step to step to prevent them from creaking under his weight.

When he reached the front hall, shattered glass from the front door crunched under his feet. A crash resounded from Niall's office down the hall. The moonlight blinked off the shards as Declan walked towards the noise.

Declan kept his back to the wall as he walked slowly down the hall.

He paused right at the edge of the door at the sound of muffled curses in an unfamiliar man's voice. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he turned the corner. He raised the gun, and fired three rounds into the intruder's back.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

The man collapsed limply to the ground and didn't move anymore. Declan was going to take any chances, though. He kept the gun pointed at the man as he pulled out his cell phone to call Niall.

The phone rang and rang and rang.

Finally, Niall answered.

"Dad. There's a problem."

 

 

Niall had come back pretty quickly after that. Or at least, Declan assumed he had.

To be entirely honest, Declan wasn't entirely sure how long his father had taken to drive all the way back here from the coast.

He'd been staring at the man's corpse. The dead body of the man he had killed. The person that was dead because of him.

Blood soaked into the carpet in his father's office, and glued together the papers and books strewn across the floor. Everything smelled like gunfire and metal.

The screech of tires in the driveway alerted Declan to Niall's arrival. Niall burst the front door.

"Declan! Are you hurt at all?"

"No." Declan was suddenly exhausted. 

His father looked him over, took in the tiredness in his eyes. "You shower and go to sleep. I'll clean this up."

Declan didn't have the energy to argue. "Okay."

He shuffled upstairs and into the bathroom. His shirt was speckled with tiny droplets of the man's blood. Declan hadn't even noticed until now.

Declan showered, but he couldn't seem to get the feeling of the feel of the gun out of his hand, couldn't seem to get the feel of blood off his body. He couldn't feel clean no matter how hard he scrubbed.

 

 

For weeks, Declan didn't want to sleep at all. 

When he was asleep, people could die. When he was asleep, he couldn't protect anyone. When he was asleep, he kept seeing the man bleeding out all over Niall's office floor.

The skin under his eyes turned dark like a bruise, and it was sometimes hard to think things. He kept losing track of time. He was a danger like this, he knew, but he still couldn't make himself sleep.

And when Niall finally pulled him aside and handed him a bottle of sleeping pills, Declan didn't argue.

 

* * *

 

The dark circles under Declan's eyes look even darker here in the bathroom, where the artificial light washes out his skin and makes him look pale and sickly. He hasn't been able to sleep properly for weeks now, and his body is definitely feeling the toll.

He hates being reminded how human he is. He likes to think of himself as a weapon or a shield, not something as fragile as a man.

Therefore, the dark circles needed to go.

Declan went to the doctor's office last week to get his prescription changed. The previous dosage still hadn't stopped the nightmares, hadn't stopped Declan from waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding and gasping for air.

And that, quite simply, was not going to cut it.

Declan hates that the sleeping pills make him vulnerable in the night, but he hates the nightmares more. Sometimes you have to be willing to make sacrifices to get what you want—what you need—and Declan is already a professional at that.

He shakes one of the little blue pills out of the bottle. His head is aching in the space right behind his eyes.

Swallowing the pill dry, Declan lays down on his bed and closes his eyes. The familiar feeling of floating overtakes him, and Declan drifts off into the dark.

 

* * *

 

_Once upon a time, there was a boy who thought he had to take care of everything and everyone, and he was right._

Declan envied Ronan and Matthew their naivety, but he would never wish this knowing on them. He would bear that weight all by himself so that they never had to. Like always, it was up to Declan to be the man of the house, to take care of his brothers and his mother.

 

 

Except when that wasn't good enough.

 

 

Declan's phone rang at 3:34 in the morning. Squinting at the bright screen in the darkness of the room, he saw that Ronan's friend Gansey was calling him. He answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Declan. It's about Ronan." On the other end of the phone, Gansey sounded like he's panicked and trying to control it. That's all Declan needed to throw himself out of bed and start rapidly dressing.

"What's going on? Where is he?"

"We're at the hospital."  _No._  "He's in surgery right now."  _NO._

Declan curled his fingers more tightly around the phone. "What happened? Wait. No. Tell me when I get there. I'm on my way now."

Gansey's voice was strangled and afraid. "There was so much blood, Declan."

"I'm on my way," Declan said again, hanging up the phone.

He looked over to where Matthew was curled up, asleep. Heart in his throat, Declan shook Matthew to try and awake him up. Matthew stayed asleep.

It was harder to breathe. Declan shook Matthew harder.

"What's going on, Declan?"

Matthew blinked blearily up at him, and relief rushed through Declan. Matthew was sitting up in his dorm bed, looking extremely confused and disoriented from being woken up.

"Is something wrong?" Matthew asked.

"Everything's okay. Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep. I'll be back later today."

 

 

Declan didn't speed as a general rule, but that didn't stop him from going twenty miles an hour over the speed limit the entire drive to the hospital. He tried not to feel like it might still be too late.

He ran into the waiting room, and saw Gansey looking drawn and pale in the corner.

Declan sat down next to him and asked, "How is he?"

"The surgery is going well. He should be out in another hour."

 _Ronan was going to be alright._  "What happened?"

"I don't actually know. Noah—our other roommate—woke me up and told me that Ronan was in trouble." Here Gansey looked away, face slightly green, like he might be ill at any moment. "Noah found him bleeding out in a park. I don't know what might have happened if Noah hadn't found him when he did."

Declan closed his eyes and tried to damp down the panicked what-ifs that rose up in his own head. That helped no one right now. Declan needed to keep calm right now. He needed to stay in control of himself. Freaking out was not an option.

"Noah found him in time. He's going to be alright," Declan said, as much for his own benefit as for Gansey's.

It worked. Gansey visibly relaxed. Declan knew the feeling, knew what it was to feel responsible for another person's well-being like that. He tried not to begrudge Gansey's ability to give up that responsibility to someone else.

 

 

When the hospital staff finally let them see Ronan, Declan and Gansey immediately rushed into the room.

Ronan was so pale in the hospital bed.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor should have been a comforting sounds, a constant reminders that Ronan was still alive, but instead it was unnerving.

Ronan looked young and fragile in a way he never did when he was awake, these days. It was more frightening than it should have been. This Ronan had the fight drained out of him, and it terrified Declan.

He couldn't keep Ronan safe if Ronan didn't want to keep himself safe.

 

 

Declan was willing to ignore the trouble Ronan got into on his own time, as long as he kept the signs of it away from the staff at Aglionby. He didn't want any difficult questions raised. Declan couldn't lose legal guardianship of his brothers just because Ronan was hell-bent on self-destruction. He couldn't trust anyone else to look after his family.

Declan wasn't sure what to do about the tattoo, though.

Ronan had shown up to school one day with a sprawling tangle inked into his back. The tattoo was a snarling and ugly thing that looked like Ronan's anger.

He almost couldn't stand to look at it because of what it meant. It was pain. It was anguish. It was fury. It was all of them knotted together on his brother's spine.

It was horrible. Declan's job was to stop that sort of thing from happening, to take care of his brothers.

The problem was, he couldn't seem to find the right thing to do.

 

 

Declan found himself sitting on the roof of an Aglionby dorm building just past midnight. He leaned back on his hands, and looked up at the sky.

A freshly purchased pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter were right next to his hand. He was still deciding if he wanted to go through with this.

This wouldn't be his first cigarette. With this cigarette, though, he'd be making a decision about the kind of person he was.

_Fuck it._

Declan opened the package, and shook out a single cigarette. Fiddling with the lighter for a few moments, he finally managed to get the thing lit.

He inhaled. The smoke burned in his throat and his lungs. He expanded; he was a giant. The world clarified in front of him.

The stars brightened above him.

At least  _this_  was something he could manage to do right.

 

* * *

  

_Once upon a time, the world ended._

 

 

Declan doesn't really remember much of what happened the morning Ronan found their father's corpse laid out on the driveway.

He remembers the breathlessness, like falling down or being punched.

He remembers pale faces and wide eyes and being afraid.

But what he remembers most is orange juice, spreading into a puddle around Ronan and spilling from the bottle Ronan had dropped. How in the dim predawn light, the juice mirrored the pool of blood around Niall, and how his heart clenched dangerously at the sight.

 

 

The rest of that day passed in a blur of flashing lights.  _redblueredblueredblue_

If you'd have asked him, Declan might have said it felt like a bad dream. He didn't, though, because their family knew better than most just what dreams were capable of.

The police asked him countless questions, about his father's body, his father's business, his father, his father.

Declan handled the questions as best as he could, making sure to keep careful eyes on his brothers. Ronan was still so pale, all scared eyes in an ashen face, clutching the neon orange blanket they'd given him.  _Shock_ , the EMS guy told Declan.  _Happens when a kind sees something like this._

 

 

There was so much that needed to get done, and Declan was the only person capable of doing it: signing death reports, making funeral arrangements, discussing the reading of his father's will with the family lawyers, setting up meetings with financial advisers.

He felt like he'd been on the phone since the very moment the police stopped questioning him: talking the bank, talking to Aglionby, calling relatives and family friends to give them all the news.

There wasn't time to sleep. Niall had told Declan to take care of the family, but he hadn't given Declan a guide on how to go it.

Even though Declan was technically a legal adult since his birthday last August, he still felt like a kid. He was overwhelmed by all the things that he was now suddenly responsible for handling.

He didn't know what to do, and that scared the shit out of him.

 

 

They would never get to go home again, the lawyers told them, faceless in their somber suits.

The fact of it sunk into Declan heavily, sitting like a stone in the place just beneath his heart. He felt sick with the knowledge.

If Declan was sick, Ronan was wasting away. Ronan had always been like their father in that he always seemed to take up more space than he should.

Just then, though, Ronan looked so small, all curled in on himself.

They weren't allowed to take anything with them when they left. Not their clothes, or their books, or anything that would have made their abrupt exile bearable. Declan gained control of their trust funds, but lost everything else he held dear.

He tried not let himself get too upset about it.

 

 

Dad's funeral was on a Monday. He'd been cremated.

It shouldn't have been such a beautiful day. It should have been raining, thundering, storming. Niall Lynch was the kind of person who should have enough of impact on the world around him that even the sky itself would weep at his death. But instead, the birds sang, the sun shone, and the rest of the world spun on oblivious.

Declan was exhausted. It seemed like it had been longer than five days since his father's murder. He'd slept less than six hours total since Thursday.

Responsibility was not a good look on him. He knew he was drawn and pinched, all wrapped up in his dark suit. His dark circles had come back with a vengeance.

Ronan wasn't looking much better. He'd shaved his head sometime in the past week, and Declan couldn't seem to remember exactly when. Ronan's knuckles were covered in clumsily wrapped bandages, and he seemed to be shaking.

People were filing into the funeral home, all in black like a flock of crows. He heard so many condolences from people who'd never met him, and had no real reason to care about his father. He didn't have it in him to deliver anything less than a stellar performance, though, so he took their condolences with a handshake and a tight little smile.

Ronan wasn't even pretending. Declan could feel Ronan simmering slowly at his side. As the last of the attendees found their seats, Declan drew Ronan to the side so that Ronan could finally say what he'd been wanting to say.

Ronan got right to the point. "This isn't right. His body should have been buried.

 _Shit._ He'd been dreading this conversation ever since he'd signed off on the cremation. "The way he died was too messy for that, Ronan. It's better this way. Trust me."

Ronan was insistent. He said, more loudly this time, "He would have wanted to be buried!"

"Ronan. Keep your voice down. You're making a scene." Declan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please. Just sit down, and be quiet."

Ronan set his chin and growled at Declan, "You can't tell me what to do. You're not Dad. You have no right."

Declan didn't have the patience to deal with this on today of all days, and so, more sharply than he'd wanted, he said, "Yeah, well, according to Dad's will—the one that got read when he got brutally murdered—I have every right. Sit down."

"Fuck you," Ronan spat with every ounce of vitriol he possessed, and took a swing at Declan.

If there is one thing that their father treated them equally in, it was in the way he taught them to box. There was no such thing as a pulled punch when Lynches were fighting.

Declan dodged Ronan’s punch on instinct, automatically raising his fists in defense.

Ronan circled around him, searching for an opening.

He didn’t really expect Ronan to actually hit him, though, not until Ronan’s fist collided with his side.

After that, Declan doesn’t really remember much.

He knew he’d gotten a couple of good hits in by the time the other attendees had managed to pull them apart. Ronan had gotten a couple of good hits in too, judging by the hot pain centered at a number of places on his body. His knuckles hurt from where he’d hit Ronan.

Fuck.

He’d hit Ronan at their father’s funeral.

He was supposed to be better than that, and he’d lost control of himself.

Declan looked around to see where Ronan had been dragged off to, and finally saw him.

Ronan was being led out the front door by Gansey’s hand on his shoulder. Before he left, he squinted at Declan, and spit at him.

Declan had lost control, and it had cost him his brother.

 

* * *

 

Declan takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door.

Sarah opens the door to her apartment just a crack. The door chain dangles in front of her face. "What do you want?"

"Sarah, I'm sorry. You were right."

She doesn't say anything thing, only levels him with a glare that seems to draw the words right out of him. A simple apology won't be enough, but he'd known that when he'd come here.

"If you'll let me in, I can explain everything."

She raises her chin, her jaw set tightly. "I can listen just fine with you out in the hallway."

Declan leans his forehead against the door frame. He shuts his eyes when they start to prickle. "Some things can't be explained in a hallway."

Sarah looks at him for a long moment, then closes the door. Declan is fully prepared to leave, but a few moments later, she opens the door all the way. "Come in, then."

"Thank you."

Declan follows her into the living room, and sits next to her on the couch. He perches his elbows on his knees, and tries to mentally organize what he's going to say. Sarah watches him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

Declan takes a deep breath. And then he takes another one.

"My father died. He was killed. And I—" Declan closes his eyes, searching for the right words.

Sarah's voice lost a bit of its bite as she asks, "You what?"

Declan shakes his head, and starts over. "Sometimes we do things we don't want to do for the people we love. Sometimes we have to make the hard choices so our family doesn't have to.

"I've done things I regret to make sure my family is safe." He looks Sarah in the eye. "My father was never a good person, but he cared about protecting our family. No matter what the cost, we have to protect the family."

"What does that even mean?" Sarah asked.

"It means that I'm not a good person either."

 

* * *

 

_Once upon a time, a liar had three sons, and one was more like him than the others._

Sometimes, you forget that the good storytellers are the best liars. (Niall had always been good at spinning stories.)

Declan hadn’t started out wanting to be a liar, but his circumstances demanded it. When people came asking for Niall, for Ronan, it was Declan’s job to turn them away. To mislead them. To make them go away and never come back.

Ronan hated liars with every inch of his being. It was easy to hate liars, to say you would never become one, if you’ve never been in a situation that depended on your ability to change the truth. Hating lying was a luxury Declan couldn’t afford.

It was Declan’s job to take care of his family, not to be liked by them. It didn’t matter if Ronan hated liars, as long as Ronan was safe.

 

Aurora watched Declan do his calculus homework at the kitchen table as she waited for the chocolate chip cookies in the oven to bake. The kitchen was quiet, which was something Declan appreciated.

The timer beeped, and Aurora took the cookies out of the oven. The cookie sheet made a screeching noise as it rubbed against the metal of the cooling rack.

Declan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. This is what a home was supposed to smell like. Not like blood and fear. He sighed.

Declan was startled then, when Aurora asked, “Are you alright, Declan?”

Concern was painted all over her face, trapped in the pinch of eyebrows.

_No. I’m not. I’m so scared I can hardly breathe, Mom._

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

“And so sometimes I just wonder where we went wrong. I wonder when Ronan became this whole other person that I don’t know anymore. I wonder if it really was my fault that he started hating me.

“I’ve just been trying so hard for so long, and I’m not even sure I’m doing the right thing anymore.” Declan wipes at his eyes, and then continues, “So yeah. If you never want to see me again after this, I completely understand.”

Sarah looks at him contemplatively in silence for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“Because I was afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not used to needing other people, and it scares me.”

Sarah was silent as she traces a line down his spine with her fingertips. He relaxes into the touch, and turns his head to look at her.

She eyes him oddly before saying, “You don’t have to take care of everyone, you know.”

Declan twists his lips into a bitter grin. “Actually, I do. It’s not like there’s anyone else to do it.”

Sarah doesn’t have a response to that, and so Declan stands and says, “Anyway, I’ll just let myself out. Thank you for listening, and sorry for being such an asshole. I won’t bother you again.”

Declan is halfway to the door before Sarah finally says, “You  _are_ an asshole, but I don’t hate you.”

As he turns around, surprised, she continues, “I’m willing to give you another shot as long as you don’t pull any more of this not-telling-me-things bullshit. Emotional intimacy and all that jazz.”

“I think I can do that,” Declan says, smiling.

Sarah smiles back at him.

 

* * *

 

Declan’s religion is like many things in his life: solemn, heavy, and a product of Niall Lynch’s plans for his children.

The Catholicism was a family tradition though, passed down through generations of Lynches. It stood out from the list of other less reputable Lynch family traditions like alcoholism, sons who disappoint their fathers, and hating yourself.

He’s been kneeling on the threadbare kneelers of the pews for a while now, and his knees ache. Everything about this church feels like his childhood; the familiarity comforts him, but everything is unravelling around him.

Declan rests his forehead on folded hands.

He’s always felt a bit silly talking to someone whose presence he’s never felt, and this time is no exception. The church feels too empty. It felt like not even God was here. Declan is alone with his thoughts.

Somehow, instead of talking to a heavenly father, Declan ends up talking to his own father.

_I hate what you did to me. None of it was my job. I’m angry, I’m tired, and I’m scared all the time. I was a child, and you forced me to grow up just so I could clean up your messes._

_Everyone depends on me for everything now, because of your will. I never asked to be the one in charge of everything. I never asked to be your replacement. Honestly, I don’t want to do this anymore. I shouldn’t have to do this anymore._

_I never wanted to be the kind of man you wanted me to be, and yet I became him anyway. I hate myself for that._

But that isn’t strictly true these days. Declan dislikes some parts of who he is, and probably always will, but he doesn’t hate himself anymore. Declan isn’t his father in much the same way that the moon isn’t a star.

His father’s work was one of things-that-could-be, instead of things-that-were. Declan’s work has always been things-that-make-sense, and he is finally starting to make sense of himself.

It’s nice, to finally be able to slot pieces back into proper place. Declan takes pride in his ability to make order out of chaos, and this is no exception.

 

 

Some hours later, well into the afternoon, Declan finally feels ready to go to confession.

His mouth goes paper dry as he walks up the carved wood of the confessional. Drawing back the red curtain, Declan takes his seat.

The sound of rustling clothes indicates that the priest is listening, and so Declan speaks.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned, it’s been a two years since my last confession.”

Here he pauses. Struggles to find the words.

“I don’t even know where to start.” Declan glanced down at his hands. “I don’t think I remember how to do this anymore.”

The priest coughs politely from behind the curtain, and said, “Go ahead and start with the direst. Only God will judge you here, and God is merciful.”

“I don’t know how God can forgive me when I can’t forgive myself.”

That was the crux of it.

“I am not a good person. Not anymore. I am fundamentally a sinner, and it’s eating me alive.

“But out of every bad thing I've done, I think my biggest sin is my silence. I saw bad things happening and said nothing. There are so many things that I should have said but didn’t, and I’m paying for them now. All the things I have left undone and unsaid are crushing me.”

Declan rubs his hand along his face as he sucks in a watery breath. His fingers are wet when he pulls them back. It’s funny. Declan hadn’t been aware he was crying.

The priest gives him a moment to collect himself before saying, “Your penance is one Hail Mary.”

Declan turns his head to look at the curtain in surprise. “What?”

“One Hail Mary.”

“Shouldn’t it be more than that? After everything I’ve done?”

“It is enough that you are here. God is merciful.” The priest paused for a moment. “I will help bear your spiritual burden by fasting for the next 30 days.”

“But—”

“Go in peace.”

 

* * *

 

Declan walks out of the church feeling lighter than he had in ages.

He stands for a moment in the hallway of the parish offices, trying to collect himself before going outside.

The sound of Ronan's voice echoing faintly in the corridor breaks into his thoughts. Glancing around, he notices that there is a set of stairs at the end of the corridor that seem like they're the probably source. What is Ronan doing up there, though?

Declan walks to the bottom of the stairs. At the top landing, his brother is talking quietly to his friend Adam Parrish, and leaning against the door frame of a small upstairs apartment. Ronan is smiling softly. He looks more peaceful than Declan has seen him look in years.

Adam and Ronan are leaning closer to one another. Everything about them seems relaxed and completely at ease. Declan is beginning to suspect this isn't something he's supposed to see.

Adam rests his hands on either side of Ronan's neck. Ronan has his hands on Adam's waist. Declan definitely isn't supposed to see this. Before he can leave, though, Ronan leans down and gently kisses Adam.

Declan hurries away, quietly, and goes outside to wait for Ronan.

 

 

People always liked to think they could tell when someone was gay, as if there was some sort of checklist of traits of gayness besides "likes people of their own gender".

All this to say, Declan hadn't even guessed that Ronan might be gay. He feels like he might have missed something in all his year of growing up with Ronan. It feels like he never learned Ronan at all. Declan has failed as an older sibling because he never even thought to ask.

Logically, he knew that Ronan probably didn't want him to know. Declan and Ronan both grew up with a faith that said hateful things about boys who loved other boys. Logically, it made a lot of sense that Ronan hadn't said anything. Logically.

Still, Declan feels like he messed up somewhere. If he's given off the impression that he would hate Ronan for who he is, then that is a failure on Declan's part. Declan can't even imagine hating Ronan. Not now. Not ever.

 

 

Ronan walks out the back door of the church with a faint smile on his face.

Declan takes a deep breath to brace himself, and says, "Ronan."

Ronan's smile immediately disappears. Declan catches a glimpse of fear on his brother's face before it's replaced by anger.

Ronan glares at him. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I came for confession. I'm allowed to do that."

Ronan sneers at him, "Don't you actually have to tell the truth in confession?"

Declan feels himself getting defensive. "Yes. Don't  _you_?”

Ronan's shoulders square up in response, ready for a fight. He leans in close to Declan, his voice is dangerously quiet and tense. "What are you trying to say, Declan?"

Declan can feel the fight brewing. He knows exactly what will happen if he says the wrong thing. Declan sighs, and releases go of all the tension. "Nothing. Not a damn thing."

Before Ronan can say anything in response, Declan sits on the ground. He pulls his cigarette case and his lighter out of the inner pocket of his coat. Declan lets himself enjoy the ritual of lighting his cigarette for a moment, before glancing back up at Ronan. Ronan is looking at him like he's grown a third eye.

Declan exhales the smoke in a cloud. Ronan is still looking at him strangely, so he holds the case out to Ronan. "Want one?"

"I didn't know you smoked."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me."

Instead of saying something in response, Ronan leans up against the wall next to Declan. He makes a scraping sound as he slides down the wall and sits beside Declan on the ground.

 

 

Declan's cigarette is half gone by the time Ronan says, "So why the sudden change of heart?"

He exhales the smoke before saying, "I'm just tired of fighting you. I can see you don't want me taking care of you anymore. I can take a hint."

Ronan looks over at him sharply. "Taking care of me _anymore_? What does that mean?"

Declan flicks the ash from his cigarette, and says, "I've been trying to look out for you for years, Ronan. Since before Dad died."

Ronan is incredulous, and so Declan continues, "It's true. You're my little brother. I want to keep you safe."

Ronan's eyebrows are knitted in confusion. "But why?"

"Because you're my family. Because you're a self-destructive little asshole who needs looking after. Because I love you. Take your pick."

Ronan doesn't respond.

The sun starts to go down. Birds in the trees around them call out to each other. The crickets fill the deepening twilight with enthusiastic chirping. The lights at St. Agnes come on. Neither of them speak.

 

 

Finally, Declan says, “You know, I’ve wanted to cut ties for years. Stop caring. Move on with my life.”

“Why haven’t you?”

"I don't know how to." Declan looks up at the sky, trying to see the stars. "I've been taking care of you, Mom, and Matthew for so long now that I don’t know how to be any different.”

Ronan looks down at his hands. “Sometimes you have to learn how to be different. It’s a choice.”

Declan looks at Ronan, startled, but Ronan still isn’t looking at him when he says, “It’s a hard choice: to be the person you want to be, to be the person you  _need_ to be. But you have to make it. You have to make it because it’s the only way to be happy.”

“I guess so,” Declan says, looking at Ronan out of the corner of his eyes. “On a related note: you and Parrish?”

Ronan’s lips twitch up in a half smile. “It’s a recent development.”

“He seems good for you,” Declan says slyly.

Ronan doesn’t even try to hide his smile this time. His face lights up like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “He is.”

There is a moment of silence. It wasn’t as strained as it usually was. Declan almost didn’t want to break it, but he also didn’t want to let this newfound habit of talking about things go to waste.

Clearing his throat, Declan asked, before he could lose his nerve, “Can I bring a girl around to church next week to meet you and Matthew?”

Ronan’s grin disappeared. His voice had an edge when he said, “You’ve never needed my permission for that before.”

“I want this to be different,” Declan said. His voice was low and more uncertain than he wanted. “Sarah’s different. I think I can see this being a long term thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Declan stands, and then offers a hand to Ronan. Ronan takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this fic that is totally about Declan and not at all about me, she says, laughing nervously. 
> 
>  
> 
> A few points about the fic:
> 
> Firstly, I don't agree with the fandom norm that Declan is homophobic. Like, no. Even if he was at one point in his younger years (and people can and do change), do you seriously think that he would turn away one of the two remaining members of his family?
> 
> Secondly, I think I am incapable of writing anything about the Lynch brothers that doesn't involve naval gazing in a church with some heavy handed religious philosophizing going on. Apologies to any Catholic readers if I messed up your religion. I tried to do a lot of research to get it right, any I hope I didn't mess up. A lot of the confession scene was based on [this](http://lifeteen.com/blog/my-side-of-the-confessional-what-is-it-like-for-a-priest/) article.
> 
> Thirdly, I don't smoke and never have, and so all my descriptions of smoking come from one of my friends, and so I don't know how accurate my descriptions are.
> 
> Fourthly, all the stuff about gun safety comes from living in Texas and having a father who believes in children knowing how to shoot guns. To the best of my knowledge, the information is correct. I have only shot a handgun on two occasions, though, and so I am probably not the most reliable source of information should you wish to learn how to shoot a gun.


End file.
